Page 43 of Bound By Blood
"To family," Eirian says simply.
Family.The word encompasses everything, birth-kin and chosen-kin, blood-bonds and heart-bonds, the complicated web of loyalty and obligation that makes life worth defending.
As the flask completes its circuit, I study the faces around our circle. These people fought for each other today, bled together, shared the intimate terror and triumph that transforms strangers into kinfolk.
This is how it starts.Not with treaties or ceremonies or diplomatic protocols, but with moments like this—battle-weary survivors sharing drink and honest words beside healing waters.
This is how everything changes.
The mist thickens around us as evening approaches, creating a private world within the larger cave system. Someone hums one of the healing songs Eirian taught her apprentices, and others join in, creating harmonies that blend human and Orcish musical traditions into something entirely new.
Beautiful.Not perfect, not polished, but real in ways that matter more than technical precision.
I lean back against sun-warmed stone, Eirian's shoulder pressed against mine, and allow myself a moment of simple contentment. Tomorrow will bring challenges, complications, and the endless work of building something unprecedented from the raw materials of mutual respect and shared purpose.
Tonight, we rest.
The spring continues its eternal bubbling, carrying away blood and doubt in equal measure, while above us, stars begin their ancient dance across stone-framed sky.
9
EIRIAN
Freedom tastes like mountain air and possibility.
Drokhan leads me up the narrow stone steps that spiral along the fortress's inner wall, past guard posts where sentries nod respectfully rather than eye me with suspicion. My healer's satchel bounces against my hip with each step, the familiar weight grounding me in this strange new reality.
"Here." He stops beside a sturdy canvas pavilion stretched between two crenellated towers, its entrance facing east toward the sunrise. "Your own space. No bars, no guards watching your sleep."
True freedom.The concept still feels foreign after weeks of confinement, however comfortable that confinement became.
I duck through the tent flap and gasp.Drokhan has arranged everything with careful attention to my needs. A low table holds my mortar and pestle, cleaned and polished. Clay jars line wooden shelves, filled with dried herbs I recognize and others that remain mysteries. A sleeping pallet spreads thick furs over soft moss, while oil lamps provide steady light for detailed work.
"The battlement walkway connects to the healing grotto," he explains, settling his massive frame carefully on a reinforced stool. "Five minutes' walk when duty calls. But this…" He gestures at the tent's interior. "…belongs to you alone."
Mine.Such a simple word, yet it carries profound weight. Ownership, autonomy, the right to privacy and personal space that I've almost forgotten existed.
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but his expression suggests he understands their deeper meaning.
"You earned it. Through service, through courage, through choosing to stay when leaving became possible."
When did leaving become possible?The question hovers unspoken between us, but I think I know the answer. Sometime between our first kiss and this morning's battle, between learning to trust his protection and choosing to fight beside his people, I crossed an invisible line from captive to willing resident.
From prisoner to partner.
He rises, pausing at the tent entrance. "Rest. Eat. The evening meal will be brought to you, but tomorrow you join the clan council as my chosen advisor."
Advisor.Another step forward, another acknowledgment of my value beyond healing skills and diplomatic potential.
After his footsteps fade down the stone stairs, I light several oil lamps and settle at the worktable with my satchel. Time to catalog my remaining supplies and plan for future needs. But first...
The obsidian-ink scroll crinkles as I unroll it across the table's surface. I've carried this scrap of parchment since the day of my capture, hidden beneath layers of bandages and hope. Now finally I have privacy and light enough for proper examination.
Mother's handwriting.I recognize the careful script despite its cramped appearance, each letter formed with the precision she brought to all her healing work. But why obsidian ink? The substance is expensive, difficult to work with, and prone to fading unless treated with specific preservatives.
Unless durability isn't the point. Unless the ink itself contains the message.
I fetch a magnifying lens from my supplies and lean closer. Under enhanced scrutiny, the text reveals layers I missed before. Certain letters appear darker than others, standing out like whispered secrets against the parchment's pale surface.
